


Love Is No Big Truth

by lynnearlington



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnearlington/pseuds/lynnearlington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick coda to Duets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is No Big Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 2x04.

It’s Pavlovian more than anything. A natural reaction to 4 o’clock in the afternoon, to Puck being in jail, to having nothing better to do. The clock ticks to 4, her phone fails to ring and she just...she drives to Brittany’s without thinking about it. It’s stupid. It’s more stupid that she doesn’t realize that she’s doing it until she’s practically got her index finger on the doorbell. 

They’re in a fight.  _Whatever._

Usually it wouldn’t bother Santana. To be honest, she starts fights all the time on purpose. Make-up sex is ridiculously hotter than any other sex she’s had so a day or two with Brittany ticked off at her is a small price to pay. But the plan isn’t supposed to backfire. Brittany isn’t supposed to go off and  _date_  someone. Especially not someone as lame as wheelchair boy. 

Sleep with someone else, sure. Brittany can fuck whoever she damn well pleases, but actually dating someone else...that’s not how it’s supposed to go. That leads to whole list of bad things; loss of privileges to Brittany’s boobs on the top of that list. 

So, Santana is in a pretty bad mood. First she loses out on a night full of an unending supply of breadsticks and now she can’t even take out her frustration in the usual manner. If only Puck hadn’t been such an idiot she could be getting off right now regardless of how pissed Brittany is. 

She lets out a deep breath and flexes her index finger back and forth in front of the small white button that will ring the doorbell. There are two options here, she moves her hand away from the doorbell and turns back to her car, drives off away from Brittany and wallows in self-pity in the comfort of her own room, or she faces the music, maybe apologizes to her best friend and gets an orgasm out of all of it. Instinct is telling her to turn on her heel and save her pride, but the door is swinging open before she has a chance to put the plan into action. Orgasm it is. 

It’s Brittany’s mom, a smudge of flour across her cheek and an arm curled around a mixing bowl. Santana can smell the sweet scent of whatever failed baking experiment the older woman is trying out this afternoon. She takes a breath to speak, but Brittany’s mother just raises an eyebrow before stepping aside and cocking her head towards the staircase in silent command.

As if Santana needs the direction. It takes considerable strength not to roll her eyes as she passes through the door and walks in the direction of Brittany’s room. There’s soft music floating down the hall and Santana can kind of make out the sound, but it’s hard to hear over her heartbeat, pounding loudly in her ears. Clenching her fists softly, she exhales and reaches forward to open Brittany’s door. 

Brittany’s on her bed, a pair of large, red headphones on her ears even though they aren’t connected to anything. An old CD player on the side of the room plays music and Santana raises an eyebrow at the sight, but honestly she’s seen Brittany do stranger things. Way stranger. 

Brittany stares at her as Santana shuts the door behind her and walks closer to the bed. Again, she’s faced with a few options here. She can brush the whole tiff off, pretend like nothing is different and act like she would any other afternoon, press her lips against Brittany’s and hope the problem just goes away OR she can stand here awkwardly, shifting back and forth on her feet as she stutters a half-hearted apology about being a complete and total bitch and hope Brittany forgives her. 

The first plan. The first plan sounds good. Minimal risk of emotional damage, maximum chance of success. Okay. Kissing. Start with the kissing. 

She manages what she hopes is a totally seductive smile, and paces to the bed, placing her knee on the mattress and leaning over Brittany to bring their lips together. She’s literally centimeters away from her goal when Brittany’s eyes narrow and her head moves to the side, Santana’s kiss falling on her friend’s cheek. Dammit. Plan one failed. 

Fine, she can give plan two a go. She’s made it this far anyway. 

“Okay fine,” she says, standing up from the bed and crossing her arms over her chest. Brittany turns to observe her. “I’m sorry or whatever, can we make out again?” 

Brittany’s eyebrows come together on her forehead and she points a mocking finger at the headphones covering her ears as if she can’t hear a word Santana is saying. Rolling her eyes Santana steps forward again and lifts the headphones off of Brittany’s head, tossing them to the floor before her friend can stop her. 

“I’m sorry,” Santana articulates. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Brittany says simply. 

“Okay,” Santana repeats, nodding resolutely. 

“So you’ll do  _Lady and the Tramp_  with me?” Brittany asks, her expression open in a way Santana immediately resents. 

“No,” Santana answers firmly. “I told you before-,”

“Why not?!” 

“Brittany,” Santana sighs, running a hand over her face. 

“You don’t even like me,” Brittany states, her voice soft and broken as she looks away from Santana. 

There aren’t many times when Santana regrets being a bitch. Most of the time she loves it. She revels in the pain she sees when an insult really hits home and she loves the way people flinch away from her when she passes in the hallway. Respect born of fear. It’s like a drug she can’t get enough of. But right now, with her best friend looking so broken and sad, Santana kind of hates that part of herself so addicted to inflicting pain. There aren’t a lot of people who love her or even like her just because. Brittany’s probably the only one outside maybe her parents and her little brother that isn’t completely terrified of her. Santana’s got this one shot at having a real friend and she’s sabotaging it every time she pushes Brittany away. The worst part, she thinks, is that it’s taking considerable effort to care. 

“That’s not true,” Santana says softly, forcing her expression to remain open and taking a step towards the bed. “You’re my best friend.” 

“I’m a warm body that helps you eat lizards,” Brittany counters. 

Santana rolls her eyes and lets out a mirthful breath. “No,” she corrects. “I’m the lizard.” 

“You want to eat yourself?” Brittany asks, her expression confused. 

“This is so not the point right now,” Santana replies, shaking her head. “The point is you’re my best friend, I’m sorry about earlier, and can we please make out again because seriously I haven’t kissed you in like two days. I’m going through withdrawals.” 

“Why won’t you do the noodle thing with me?” Brittany says, not stopping to let Santana answer. “Because you don’t like me,” Brittany continues to herself, nodding once as if in confirmation of her own conclusion.

“Because we’re not corny Disney dogs!” Santana counters loudly, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation. 

Brittany tilts her head to the side and with a serious expression says, “Well  _you’re_  a bitch.” 

When the words register, Santana’s jaw drops and she stares at Brittany, trying to decide if the pun was intentional or not. Brittany’s expression remains blank and Santana just loses it, laughter bubbles out of her and she can’t stop any of it as she nearly doubles over. All the tension evaporates from earlier and Santana lets happiness flood through her system as she laughs genuinely for the first time in days. 

“You’re right, B,” she says around chuckles. “I am.” 

“I like you anyway,” Brittany whispers, sitting up in bed a little bit. 

Santana swallows, her eyes burning a little and for a second she has a little trouble breathing. “Whatever,” she breathes. 

“Yeah,” Brittany says softly, picking at the quilt over her bed. “Whatever.” 

Sighing, Santana walks past the foot of the bed, her fingers trailing over the carved lines towards the end until she’s standing on the other side, sliding onto the mattress until she’s lying down next to Brittany and staring at the ceiling. 

“Does sex mean something to you?” Brittany asks, squirming down a little to mimic Santana’s pose. 

“What?” 

“Does it mean something?” Brittany repeats. 

Santana turns her head and observes her best friend’s profile. “Does it mean something to you?” 

Brittany shrugs and purses her lips together. “Not really.” 

“Yeah me neither,” Santana answers. 

“It means something to Artie,” Brittany says and Santana feels a quick stab of guilt for what she did earlier. It’s fleeting and insignificant, but she almost feels bad for being a bitch and telling Artie something she knew would make him drop Brittany like a rock. It was self-interested and mean, sure, but it got the results she was going for so she’s finding it really hard to feel bad about it. Seeing the hurt on Brittany’s face, however, is making whatever guilty feelings she may have stamped down about it come right to the surface. 

“He’s a moron,” Santana argues. Which is true. This part she doesn’t feel bad about at all. Everyone knows how Brittany operates, the fact that he would try and make it into something else, that he would try and make Brittany feel bad about it makes her want to smack him. Hard. 

“Maybe,” Brittany answers. 

“He is,” Santana pushes. 

Brittany turns over on her side and props her head up on her fist to stare at Santana. “I liked your duet with Mercedes. You guys should have won.” 

“Duh,” Santana says, smirking, but Brittany’s face remains expressionless and Santana reacts without thinking. “I’m sorry I didn’t sing with you.” 

This time Brittany’s lips turn up into a sad, brief smile. “No you’re not.” 

She considers insisting that she is, even if it’s only half true - she’s sorry that it hurt Brittany’s feelings, but she can’t say she’d do anything differently given the chance. Unfortunately, Brittany’s looking at her like she won’t believe a word to the contrary no matter how adamant Santana may be about it. She settles for shrugging softly. 

Sighing, Santana turns back to look at the ceiling and blows out a breath upwards. “Are you done being mad at me or not?” 

She feels Brittany shift around on the bed until she’s on her stomach, closer to Santana and her face turned on the pillow to face Santana’s profile. “Do you actually like me or do you just want no one else to like me?” Brittany whispers and Santana sucks in a breath at the question. Why does Brittany always choose the weirdest times to become observant and astute? 

Seriousness shrouds the question and Santana’s stuck between the truth and pride, undecided about which direction she wants to go, but realizing how important the choice is. The truth is scary, an admission of something she’s nowhere near ready to accept, but she has a feeling that the lie could be worse. Seconds pass, Santana chewing on her bottom lip in indecision, before she makes her choice and turns her head to look into the clear blue eyes of the only person who has stuck around her on the best days and the worst days. 

“Both,” she confesses softly. 

Brittany’s forehead scrunches up in confusion but it only lasts a second before her expression clears and her lips turn up into the first real smile Brittany’s flashed at her in days. “Yeah?” 

She feels raw, exposed, vulnerable and a whole host of feelings she told herself she wouldn’t allow herself to feel anymore. So she rolls her eyes and turns away again. “Whatever.” 

This time Brittany laughs and before Santana can snap at her to shut up, their bodies are pressed together and Brittany’s happy eyes are staring down into Santana’s before their lips are pressed together. 

Santana moans embarrassingly into the kiss. She hates that she got to a point where she missed this, but Brittany’s lips are warm and soft and she can’t deny how happy the feeling of it makes her. The material of Brittany’s Cheerios uniform is rough against her palms as she searches for the zipper to tug it off, but Brittany smiles against Santana’s lips and pulls away. 

“What are you doing?” Santana asks, perturbed. Finally things are going the way she wants them to and Brittany  _stops._  

Smiling down at Santana, Brittany adjusts her legs to bracket Santana’s hips and sits up, reaching to her side her to tug the zipper of her top down and pull the fabric away from her chest. Then, not for the first time in Santana’s life, she realizes that she’s being straddled by a topless, blonde cheerleader, smiling down at her like she’s about to go on the ride of her life. 

Seriously. Sometimes her life is legitimately straight out of a porno. 

The thought makes her laugh, but the sound chokes off when Brittany grabs both of Santana’s hands and brings them up to palm her breasts. She recognizes the gesture for what it is - a peace offering. 

She doesn’t really know why she says it, but she does. “We don’t have to.” 

Brittany’s smile falters a fraction as she considers the words and Santana doesn’t know what to say now that they’re out there. She’s stuck again, between the part of her that desperately wants this to mean something and the part that knows having it mean something sets her up for way too much pain. She should take it back. She should laugh it off and go back to groping her best friend and enjoy the awesome orgasm that’s on her horizon if she does, but for some reason she can’t get herself to do any of that. 

“You don’t want to?” 

Shaking her head, Santana sits up a little, her hands still on Brittany’s chest and Brittany still perched on Santana’s lap. “I do,” she says. “We just don’t have to.” 

If Santana was going to feel bad about something in all of this, it’s the look of utter confusion on Brittany’s face - like she can’t figure out what else Santana would possibly want to do with her other than fuck. 

“What else would we do?” Brittany asks genuinely, her fingers tapping against the tops of Santana’s hands. 

Santana shrugs and looks away, her eyes falling on a plastic case on Brittany’s desk. She doesn’t have to be able to see it to know what it is. “We could watch  _Lady and the Tramp_ ,” she answers on a soft laugh. 

She feels Brittany’s whole body jerk in surprise and if Santana ever needed proof that she was a complete and total bitch, it would be her best friend’s surprise that she wants her for something more than sex. “Really?” 

“Sure,” Santana answers, trying to fight the urge to cry at Brittany’s happy expression. 

“Artie wouldn’t watch it with me,” Brittany says, whipping her head to the side to look at the DVD. 

Santana pulls her hands away from Brittany’s chest and slides them to her hips, her fingers toying with the waistband of Brittany’s skirt. “Artie’s a moron,” she says for the second time that afternoon. She’d seriously drive off and beat the crap out of the loser if the whole damn thing wasn’t her fault in the first place. 

“You’re really nice sometimes,” Brittany whispers, moving closer to Santana’s face and smiling. 

Raising an eyebrow, but biting back against the bitchy retort on the tip of her tongue, Santana brushes her thumbs against Brittany’s hip bones. “Do you want to watch the movie or not?” 

Brittany’s head bounces up and down rapidly before she slides off of Santana to reach for the DVD on the table, bounding off the bed and sliding it into the player across the room. Santana crosses her arms across her chest and watches her friend skip back over and slide back down next to her, still topless as the opening credits begin to play on the TV. 

“Are you going to put a shirt on?” Santana asks, as Brittany squirms closer so their arms are flush against each other, Santana’s foot knocking against Brittany’s calf. 

“Do you want me to?” Brittany’s pinky comes down to brush against Santana’s as she asks it and her eyes are drawn to Brittany’s bare chest as she tries to decide how to answer that question. 

She settles for, “No, not really.” 

“We can have sex after though, right?” Brittany asks, leaning her head down on Santana’s shoulder to watch the movie. 

“Yeah,” Santana gulps, unsure of how she’s going to focus on a Disney film with Brittany’s boobs just... _right there._

“Cool,” Brittany breathes, smiling. 

Santana hums in agreement, hooks her pinky around Brittany’s and forces herself to look at the TV screen. The movie plays, but honestly, Santana doesn’t concentrate on any of it. 

She thinks maybe she dozes off halfway through, but she can’t remember. The next thing she’s really aware of is Brittany’s lips on her shoulder and her hand trailing up her side. Her brain is full of sleep and her body feels heavy on the bed, but with Brittany’s hands on her and her lips tracing a path up her jaw, it isn’t hard for Santana to get with the program. Fast. 

Picking up her arms to grab Brittany’s hips, she shifts them over and settles in between Brittany’s legs, smiling at the sharp inhale that pulls through Brittany’s body as Santana cants her hips down. All sleepiness evaporates as Brittany deftly strips Santana’s top off and quickly does the same to her skirt, shucking the clothes off the side of the bed as Santana runs her hand up the outside of Brittany’s thigh. Santana’s heart thuds faster and faster inside her chest as Brittany smiles, effortlessly seductive, and scratches her nails down Santana’s bare back. 

It’s just the way Santana likes it, all desperate and intense the way make up sex should be. They don’t talk about feelings, or about school or Melissa fucking Etheridge and Santana doesn’t have to think about what they’re doing or what it all means and everything is right in Santana’s world. 

Until later, when Brittany’s got two fingers inside of her, their chests pressed together damp and warm, and Brittany pulls back and stills. She fucking  _stills_  with Santana seconds from coming. Suffice to say, it’s not the happiest moment of Santana’s life. 

“The fuck, B?” Santana gasps, trying to move, desperately seeking friction. She’s right fucking there, what the hell? 

Santana’s eyes try and focus on Brittany’s face, but her body is tightly coiled and hot and she just needs to get off. When Brittany presses their lips together and shifts a little to do so, Santana thinks maybe the pause is finally over, but Brittany pulls away again and Santana finally notices the serious expression on her friend’s face. 

“Thanks for watching the movie with me,” Brittany whispers. 

Groaning, Santana rolls her eyes and tries to get Brittany to move her fingers. “Are you kidding me?” 

“I’m serious,” Brittany replies, keeping her face above Santana’s, still unmoving. 

“Fine, you’re welcome, can you fucking move please?” 

“I love you,” Brittany says, her eyes widening as if she can’t believe she said it. 

Santana stills, the heat and tension in her body forgotten as fear and shock send chills through her entire being. “Britt,” Santana starts, her heart pounding heavily for an entirely different reason than earlier. 

“I just mean,” Brittany continues, her face a mixture of confusion and surprise. “I mean you don’t, you don’t have to...nevermind.” 

It’s intense for all the reasons Santana hates. There’s this heady feeling in her chest and her head is kind of dizzy and it’s not because Brittany’s got two long fingers inside of her and their chests are smashed together and Santana can taste Brittany’s strawberry lip gloss on her tongue. Her body wants to run away; she can feel the urge thrum through her. There’s a jerky insult right in the back of her throat begging to come out and her palms itch to push Brittany away. 

But against all instinct, Santana stays where she is, trapped between the mattress and Brittany’s body her hands splayed over her best friend’s back. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay.” 

The expression on Brittany’s face remains the same - confusion and surprise - but the tension around her eyes softens and her lips curl up a little bit in a smile. Santana knows she didn’t confess anything, knows she didn’t say the kinds of things you’re supposed to say when you’re best friend tells you they love you, but the look on Brittany’s face makes Santana feel split wide open and exposed like Brittany can tell that  _it’s okay_  really means  _I love you too._  

“Just stop teasing me,” Santana continues against a lump in her throat. 

Brittany nods, but keeps her mouth shut and then blissfully moves her fingers again, the coiling tightness in Santana’s stomach returning as heat flares in the back of Santana’s spine all the way to the backs of her eyes. Brittany’s always been so good at this. 

Arching her body up into Brittany’s, her orgasm punches through her, her thighs trembling and mouth dropping open and she scrambles to make sure no words come out, snapping her jaw shut against all the things her heart wants to say. 

But Brittany smiles against the warm skin of Santana’s neck and strokes her fingers softly as Santana comes back down and Santana presses a soft kiss into Brittany’s hair, trying to suck air back into her lungs. When Brittany pulls her hand away from between Santana’s legs and pulls back, Santana brushes blonde hair away from Brittany’s face. 

The smile that Brittany gives her, wide and free, makes Santana’s chest ache and even though the room is silent and Santana’s mouth is tightly shut, she realizes that all those things her heart aches to express...she doesn’t really have to say them. Not yet anyway. There’s calm, certainty in Brittany’s smile and her eyes are this soft blue as they rake over Santana’s face lazily and all Santana feels around them is warm affection. 

She feels equal parts terrified and elated at the same time. 

Normally she’d leave right now. She’d get up, pull her clothes back on and rearrange her hair and stomp down the steps back out to her car. Occasionally she’d stay for dinner if it was late, or for a TV show that she wouldn’t catch if she had to ride home. 

But she feels like she’s standing at a crossroads and the choice she’s been making the past few years just hasn’t been working out for her. 

So instead of standing like she usually does, she smiles back at Brittany and presses her head further into the pillow, opening her arm in invitation. 

Brittany looks confused again, tilting her head but still smiling before her grin goes impossibly wide with realization and the skin around her eyes wrinkle in amused happiness. 

Brittany snuggles into Santana’s shoulder, her palm pressed against Santana’s stomach and for the first time since they started sleeping together, they actually  _sleep_  together.


End file.
